


speaking in tongues

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 69, Fellcest - Freeform, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, cross-universe bullshit shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Sans has always had a shrug where his willpower should be.





	speaking in tongues

When Sans gets out of work, Red is waiting at the back door like a creeper. Hands in his pockets, slouched against a lamppost, Red says, "Hey. Y'wanna screw around?"

It's been a long shift, asking humans over and over again if they've tried turning things off and on. Sans is good at call center tech support, mostly because he finds frustrated people hilarious and never takes anything personally, but he'd worked a couple hours at the hot dog stand before he even showed up for his second job. His head hurts. He wants to fall on his face and not move for ten hours of glorious unconsciousness.

At the sight of Red, a traitorous pulse of heat starts low in his pelvis, because his body is stupid. Not a new revelation, but an annoying one.

"Wow," Sans says, deadpan, his soul pounding. "Consider me wooed."

"Oh, sorry, didn't realize you had standards all of a sudden." Red strolls his way into Sans's personal space. His jacket smells like sweat and the ghost of cigarette smoke. He leans in close enough that his breath comes hot on Sans’s neck. "I got some free time. My bro’s at work. I wanna get my mouth on your cunt."

It's just the two of them in an empty parking lot. Nobody to hear what Red's saying. Sans has to resist the urge to look guiltily around anyway. At least Red is probably too close to see his expression.

The smart thing to do would be to go home and crash. This thing, this whatever they're doing... he shouldn't have let it happen twice. He's waking up hard from lurid porn dreams more than he ever did before Red fucked him. If his plan is to work the distracting boners out of his system, it's getting worse, not better.

But he's always had a shrug where his willpower should be.

Sans grabs Red by the back of the neck and pulls their mouths together. Then he shortcuts them into Red's bedroom. Fucked if he's dealing with that spring in their couch digging into his back again. 

Red laughs knowingly into Sans's mouth, and irritation and something hotter wraps its fingers around Sans's throat. He bites Red's chin, trying to work his way down to his neck, nearly tripping as Red pushes him backward until his back hits a wall.

Then Red is on him, overwhelming. He's not that much bigger than Sans, but suddenly he's everywhere. His body presses Sans flat against the wall. His thigh insinuates itself between Sans's legs. His teeth set in Sans's neck. His hand wraps around Sans's lower spine, rubbing the cartilage between the vertebrae just how Sans likes it.

"Whoa," Sans says, flustered. His hands settle on Red's hips, more for something to hold onto than for steering. "Whoa, hey now--"

"Uh-uh, buddy," Red says against his neck. "Trying to woo you here. Are you wooed yet?" His thigh presses against the base of Sans's pelvis, making Sans swallow a whine. "Heh. Feels like it."

In self-defense, Sans gets his hands under Red's shorts, rubbing the top of his sacrum, pulling them closer together. Red is good with that, it turns out. "Do I need to be here for this or do you get off on hearing yourself talk?"

"You oughta know." Red lets go of Sans's spine long enough to unzip his hoodie and push it off his shoulders. It hits the floor. Red feels up his ribcage, shamelessly groping. "Man, how many goddamn shirts do you even have on? Seems like a shame to cover these up."

Sans swallows. His breath still hitches as Red drags his thumb across the sternum with a gentleness that flusters him more than the outright manhandling did. "I'm saving myself for marriage."

"You ain't saving anything, Sansy." In Red's mouth, the nickname is a taunt. "You're damn near riding my leg."

Which is when Sans realizes that he's grinding his hips a little into Red. Already he's breathing fast and heavy, can't quite keep it out of his voice when he asks, fake-wounded, "You mean you're not gonna make an honest man of me?"

Red snerks. "I ain't no miracle worker." His hands creep down, catching the hem of Sans's shirts like he's going to pull both of them off at once.

Sans turns his soul blue. Red drops to his knees on the carpet with a very loud, very complicated string of curses that Sans has never even heard before. Something about his mother's dust and a funnel. Impressively vulgar, A++ for creativity. For a moment, Sans just enjoys Red's hilarious expression. Then Red narrows his eyes and grabs Sans's shorts, yanking them off to join his hoodie on the floor. The pussy Sans's magic formed without his actual permission is bright and bare and right in Red's face. 

Red grins a filthy grin, skimming his tongue over his teeth. "That'll work."

"Nope." Sans plants his hand in the middle of Red's face, pushing him away. "If you think I'm letting you put those fucking shark teeth anywhere near my crotch--"

Red bites his palm. Not hard, no intent to harm him, but Sans yanks back automatically. Red's grin hasn't faded at all. "Relax, you fucking wuss. I know what I'm doing. I haven't bitten Boss's dick off once."

"Boy howdy, I'm so reassured. I always wanted to dust in somebody's mouth."

Red reaches out and thumbs Sans's outer labia. Spreads him open, just a little, and Sans hisses. As if Sans didn't say anything, Red says, “I ain't gonna just let you wreck me every damn time, you control freak. You're not him. Now shut up and lemme show you a good time."

He can't really argue. The only thing he's got control over is what he lets other people see, and it’s hard to let go of that even if he tries. He doesn’t try very often. So because he can't argue, he goes for the low blow: actual sincerity. "You always do."

Red's expression softens a little. Brusquely, he says, "Well, all right. Good. Uh, you too."

Sans snorts. "Did that hurt? Are they gonna revoke your douchebag license?"

"Yeah, that's right. Run your mouth." Thumb skimming across Sans's clit, already so wet that there's no friction, just an easy glide, Red says, "Tell you what, pumpkin--"

"Wh--" Sans's voice catches, and he clears his throat. "What, sugarplum, oh light of my life?"

"How about you sit on my face?" Sans's legs are shaking, just a little, and Red puts a hand on his hip to hold him up. Doesn't stop rubbing his clit in slow, infuriating little circles, of course. "You can suck me off."

"And miss all this great pillow talk?"

"You love it." Red takes his hand back and Sans bites back an involuntary protest. Deliberately, Red licks blue slick off his thumb. "Best offer. If I wanna get off, I can just ask Boss. You... well, you're kinda boned."

"And you've got your douchebag license back. Congrats." Sans stands up on wobbly legs. "Take your pants off."

"Ain't you a bossyboots." Red throws his shirt at Sans's face. On reflex, Sans ducks out of the way and it hits the wall. Red's pants follow a second later and he raises his brows, a silent dare.

His soul is dim. There are visible cracks splitting its dry surface. Like a punch in the chest, Sans feels a couple emotions too many, a bitter cocktail of pity-horror-shame. He pushes it away to deal with later (or never, preferably) and redirects his attention to Red's bare pelvis, which seems less intimate. He doubts Red missed his reaction, but there's nothing he can do about it now.

Red's mattress is as bare as his own and looks unused. Red sprawls carelessly across it, completely barebones. He's so much smaller than he looks in his clothes, the sweep of his scarred ribs almost graceful. Which is a weird thing to think about his own body, but whatever. Red's diffuse magic settles into a cock. Red meets Sans's eyes and grins. "You done staring? C'mere and pony up. I don't got all day."

The thing is, Sans isn't a blushing virgin. There are probably still bathrooms in the capital with his name and 'for a good time call'. He’d screwed his way through most of the university’s science department. He's done his share of fucking around, the last six years be damned, but kneeling over Red's face feels weirdly vulgar. He stops short, peering down at Red. "You sure you're good with this? What if you want to stop in the middle?"

“If I want you off, I can damn well move you,” Red says. “I suggested this, didn't I? I'm good. You?"

Sans shrugs. "Sure."

Before Sans can swing his leg over, Red catches Sans by the hips. His expression doesn't belong on someone who's about to have a guy's cunt on his face. In the same tone he used while his fingers were inside Sans, he says, "Tell me you want it."

Exasperated, Sans says, "I said sure, dude."

"That doesn't sound very enthusiastic," Red sing-songs. "Lemme hear you say it."

"Fucking--" Sans drags a hand down his face. "Yes, okay? I want it."

Red lets him go. "Yeah. That's real good, honey. Now c'mere."

The condescending pet name skims dangerously close to sincerity. Maybe if Sans ignores it, it'll go away. He positions himself over Red's face. "Make up your mind. Maybe if you weren't being such an asshole--"

Red yanks him down into his mouth.

All the breath leaves Sans's body at once, and the one he takes in shakes hard. The first few seconds he's frozen in place might be pure surprise, sure, he can explain it that way, but the next several are because Red is good with his mouth. Red is awesome with his mouth, in fact, his tongue long and generous and clever, and fuck, Red got another six years of sexual experience while Sans was taking a sabbatical. He got a post-doctorate in pussy-eating.

There's no way Red can breathe, not that either of them really need to, but Red's growl is deep and gratified. His hands are hard on Sans's hips, keeping Sans right where Red wants him. He can't feel teeth, just Red's tongue pushing inside him.

"Fuck," Sans says. His laugh is shaky. "You're good at that."

Red makes another very smug noise.

His fingers have been hooked under Red's ribs, holding on for dear life. He pries them off and takes hold of Red's dick instead. Red jerks under him. Precome beads up at the slit of Red's cock, and Sans's mouth waters. When he leans forward to lick it away, there's a moment when Red doesn't let him go. Just holds him there, trapped against his mouth.

Sans says roughly, a warning without any backbone, "Red."

Red lets go. Sans can still feel the outline of his hands. He shifts to lay across Red's body, wary of the points of his teeth. Once he's resettled, Red puts that proprietary hand back on his hip and pulls him back down.

In retaliation, Sans licks the head of Red's dick, a broad swipe of his tongue that makes Red jerk under him. He tastes like salt and sweat. Sans didn't realize how much he's missed that taste until it's in his mouth again. He hums and curls his tongue around Red's dick as much as he can, stroking what he can't reach in a loose fist. Even with spit and more and more precome slipping from the head of Red's dick, the friction must burn. Red grinds against his hand, kneading his fingers into Sans’s hips like a happy cat.

A good long stretch of sucking dick is one of Sans’s favorite ways to blow a lazy afternoon. It doesn’t require a lot of energy or mental bandwidth. He’s good at it. It’s meditative; he can kinda zone out on what he’s doing and make the other person happy at the same time. Win-win situation. But he can’t find his groove because Red is relentlessly distracting. Whenever Sans manages to scrape together a little concentration, Red switches up what he’s doing and drags his attention back. The result is what’s probably the sloppiest blowjob performance of Sans’s life. No finesse, no style, just spit and desperation.

At least his mouth is occupied, stifling the moans Red’s dragging out of him. Red probably can’t hear Sans over his own shameless, muffled noises, groans that vibrate in his ribcage, which is both flattering and embarrassing as hell. He’s used to dorm rooms and storage closets and every little sound feels loud enough to hear from the street. 

Sans’s motor has been revved since he saw Red waiting by the back door. He’s easy. Red doesn’t have to wait long for Sans to come the first time, fast and bright as a flashbulb. Red keeps licking at him a couple seconds longer than is strictly comfortable, and he’s got a feeling Red knows it. Paranoia, maybe. Just in case, Sans knees him in the shoulder. Red smacks his hip, doing no damage but jolting Sans like sparks snapping off a glitching machine. 

Then Red has mercy on him, easing off, just slow, gentle licks to keep him interested. It’s enough to let him concentrate on sucking Red off. So he does. If he’s maybe a little vicious about applying every dirty trick that he remembers, that’s nobody’s business but his. 

When his fingers wander down past Red’s dick, there’s a brief snap of magic shifting. Then Red tilts his hips up, pushing his shiny new pussy towards Sans’s hand. Two for one deal. Nice, if a little freaky that Red has that much control over his magic when Sans gets whatever shows up. Red’s already soaking wet. If Sans was Red, he’d have no end of bad porno dialogue about how bad Red must want it, but he just chuckles and slips two fingers in. Red is tight inside, soft like he isn’t anywhere else. When Sans curls his fingers, Red’s hips jerk up; he pushes Red back down and gets another one of those heartfelt groans of approval.

Years of trombone have done Sans good in the multitasking with his hands and mouth department. He manages to keep going until Red lets go of his hip to tap two fingers to Sans’s leg, fast and slightly frantic. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s a warning. Sans pulls back, still fucking him with his fingers, to pant, “It’s okay. Do it.”

He takes Red back in his mouth. Red shudders almost hard enough to throw Sans off, turning his face so he doesn’t drown himself. Smart. His breath comes humidly against Sans’s inner femur. His fingers dig into Sans’s bones. It aches like there might be marks tomorrow, a spore of bruises. Sans realizes he doesn’t mind, riding high on pure smugness. 

That lasts until Red’s cursing against his leg and spilling over, except before the hot pulses of come have even stopped, Red’s got his tongue back on his clit. He’s blunt about it, rougher than Sans thought he liked; what little cool Sans may have gotten back while Red was coming is just gone, pleasure surging up. He gasps and catches the last spurt of jizz on his face, so hot it burns. 

It’s his turn to grab at Red’s legs, trying to brace himself, trying not to just grind on Red’s face. For one thing, he might kill himself on those teeth. The thought makes him laugh, breathless and a little hysterical. He’s still laughing when he comes, breaking off into a moan that makes him goddamn glad nobody’s around to hear it. Then he shudders into silence.

Red gives him a good thirty seconds, then pushes him off, fast and unceremonious. One second Sans is sitting on Red's face staring at his dick and the next he's on his back, half on the mattress and half off. He's still feeling little aftershocks, his cunt clenching on nothing, Red's come on his face and his fingers, but he fumbles automatically for his hoodie and mumbles, "'Kay, one sec, 'm goin'--"

Then Red's on top of him, his tongue in Sans's mouth, cradling Sans's face in his sticky hands. Dazed, Sans twines their tongues together, tasting himself. When Red goes to pull back, probably to talk some stupid pornographic shit to make up for missed time, Sans grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him back down.

So they make out like teenagers for a couple minutes, until the sweat cools on Sans's bones and their magic fades out. Red is, well, red-hot, a purring engine to curl up against in the winter. That headache Sans started out with seems like a distant memory, all the tension leeched out of him.

Red rubs his face against Sans's like a big bony cat, which just means Sans's face is smeared with all kinds of mess now too. Practically drawling, too lazy to enunciate, Red says, "Now what was that you said about shark teeth?"

Sans hums. "You fishing for compliments?"

"For reel," Red says. "'Cause a minute ago I was getting soaked."

"I can sea that."

"Pretty smooth jokes for somebody who's blushing," Red says. Sans rolls his eyes. "Hey, what kinda rude fuckers were you banging that kicked you out right after?"

"Aw, sugarskull." Sans chucks Red's chin. "You're the only rude fucker for me."

Red snorts and jerks himself free of Sans's fingers. "Sweet talker. You're just saying that 'cause I put out."

"Pretty much," Sans agrees.

"You're welcome, asshole. But seriously, fuck your wham bam thank you ma'am bullshit. Stick around. At least take a shower or something. You look like you tried to suck off a paintball gun." Red strokes his thumb over Sans's teeth, his eyes hooded. "Heh. Next time I come on your face, I wanna see it."

He's exhausted, but that doesn’t keep his magic from threatening to well up all over again. Judging from the smug expression on Red's face, he noticed. Sans pushes him off. "You're kind of a freak, huh?"

"Yep," Red says, popping the 'p' with unnecessary gusto. He props himself up on his elbow, watching Sans roll off the mattress and grab his shorts. "I'm you, pal. I know alllll your dirty little secrets."

"I'm you and I know exactly how full of shit you are. You really gonna try to psych me out with the whole 'that's the expression of a guilty man' routine?"

"I’m not allowed to kill people anymore,” Red says. “Can’t even steal their stuff.”

“Technically, I never said you couldn’t steal people’s stuff,” Sans says.

“Papyrus did,” Red says. “Plus my bro’s in the guard and everything, and you people make laws about the weirdest shit. So I gotta get my kicks somewhere. You’re the one who fucked up and made yourself interesting."

"I'm not that interesting." Sans pulls his shorts back on. He's gonna have to do his own laundry again if he wants to avoid an awkward conversation with Papyrus. "Just twenty bad jokes in a schlubby hoodie. Figured the mystique would've worn off by now."

"You think so, huh." Red reaches under his mattress and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Conversationally, he says, "My brother could've killed you."

Sans shrugs. "A moldsmol could kill me.”

"Were you just gonna let him?" Red asks.

They exchange stares for a long few seconds, just taking each other in. Sans doesn’t answer. Red doesn’t really need him to.

Then Sans says, "Hey, I think I'm gonna take you up on that shower thing."

As if they didn't just have a near-miss with an honest conversation, Red nods and pulls out his lighter. "Good call. You wanna conserve water?"

"You just got off five minutes ago."

"Hey, I'm saving the whales or whatever. You've got a dirty mind."

"Goes with the rest of me," Sans says, pulling the bedroom door open. "The whales can fend for themselves."

"Suit yourself." Lighting up, Red sticks the cigarette between his teeth. Says around it, "Get me some mustard from the kitchen, would ya, sweetheart?"

"Nope," Sans says, and shuts the door on him. 

He heads to the bathroom, passes the living room, and nearly jumps out of his bones when he hears, "Sans?"

His first thought is 'oh shit, Papyrus.' He's not technically wrong, but Papyrus's voice isn't chewed up like gravel. Papyrus isn't the one sitting with one arm draped across the back of the couch, watching TV like he's been there for at least ten minutes and heard every-fucking-thing. 

Edge hasn't turned his head to look yet. Sans has time to nope out of this situation if he's smart. He's not smart, so he freezes guiltily in the doorway like he just got busted pickpocketing the pope.

Edge knows that he's fucking Red. Edge is most definitely not going to tear his skull off his neck and punt it like a soccer ball. They're all adults here, or at least Edge is. This isn't one of Mettaton's soaps where he plays all the characters, cheats on himself, and has dramatic revelations of infidelity with a lot of punching and crying and the occasional death by chainsaw. For once, Sans has nothing to feel guilty about.

So he quickly wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, wishing like hell he hadn't left his hoodie in the bedroom, and says, "A Sans, anyway. We come in six packs now."

That does make Edge turn to look at him, with an intensity that's honestly a little uncomfortable. His gaze goes from the top of Sans’s head to the bottom of his feet. Tempting as it is, Sans doesn't back up or break eye contact. He doesn't let himself do that where Edge is concerned. Edge isn't some LV-drunk animal, just a version of Papyrus who was very, very badly hurt. Sans isn’t gonna let Edge think he's afraid of him.

"Didn't know you were here," Sans says, trying to fill up the charged silence. "Gotta put a bell on you, buddy."

"You can certainly try," Edge says, very dryly. 

Relaxing, Sans laughs. "C'mon. A nice little kitty collar with a bell on it. Maybe some rhinestones. You and Red could match."

"You could think before you open your mouth, but I don't see that happening," Edge says, but there's no heat behind it. "It'd suit you better."

Sans gestures at himself, ratty slippers and t-shirts washed until they're more gray than white. "Hey, I got a whole look happening here. Be a shame to ruin it."

"I didn't realize clinical depression was a look," Edge says. He smirks. "Or did you mean being freshly fucked?"

Welp, so much for relaxing. He really shouldn't have left his hoodie with Red. He really should've gotten the fuck out of here as soon as the jizz was dry. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, "Uh, I wouldn't really--"

"How was he?" Edge asks.

For a second, Sans wonders if this is going to turn into a soap opera throwdown after all, except Edge probably errs more on the side of stabbing than slapping. A stupid thought. It's just Edge. Funny, prickly, fucked up Edge, who's hilariously easy to wind up and too serious for his own good.

"What do you want, a comment card?" Sans asks, aiming for casual.

Edge frowns. "What the fuck is a comment card?"

Right. Customer service: probably not a priority in murderworld. "It's a thing that restaurants do that-- look, never mind. I'll grab you one the next time I go out to eat. The point is that it was fine, thanks for asking."

"Just fine?" Edge says, all insinuation.

"Should I take that personal?" says Red from directly behind him. No question; Red is definitely sweet, sweet karma for every time Sans pranked Undyne by stepping out of dark hallways. Within a span of seconds, he's just there, pressed against Sans's back. His hands settle on Sans's hips like they belong there. "'Cause holy shit, talk about damning with faint praise. Hey, boss. Been here long?"

"Long enough," Edge says.

Deciding that he’s not gonna look too hard at that statement, Sans wraps his fingers around Red's wrists to forestall any groping further south. He knows his own sense of humor, and Red's is even meaner. His words come out a little too fast. "It was swell. Fun. Good time for the whole family. Literally, in your case." Red snickers. Edge just raises a brow. Sans continues, "I'd stick around and give you the blow by blow, but I was on my way out."

Red puts his chin on Sans's shoulder, probably just to prove he can. With malicious delight, he says, "What's the rush? You nervous or something?"

"Nope," Sans says. "Should I be?"

When Red wiggles his fingers, Sans tightens his grip hard in warning. Red makes a guttural, pleased noise and presses closer against his back. "Keep doing that and yeah, maybe."

Sans glances at Edge, who's watching with his chin resting in his hand. He's expecting Edge to be seething, but he only looks entertained. Still, Sans asks, "You just gonna sit there and watch?"

"Would you rather I help?" Edge asks.

There are a lot of different meanings in those five little words, waiting to be untangled. Most of them are harmless. Edge shows no sign of moving. But Sans is suddenly very aware of how suicidally stupid it is to be standing here between them, two on one, like prey. Red knew Edge was waiting out here. They played him like a cheap kazoo, or maybe just stood back while he played himself. More fun that way.

His sense of danger is permanently fucked. Compared to 'this weird kid could kill me and everyone I love and there's nothing I can do to stop them', what's a little death threat between friends? Which is the only reason that this possibly murdery situation hits him like taking a shot, the fear a rush that's wild and sweet.

Maybe Papyrus has a point about seeing Alphys's therapist.

Sans elbows Red in the ribs without remorse and dodges to the side, out of his reach, where he can keep both of them in sight. To Edge, he says, "No thanks, I've got it."

"You weren’t the one I would have helped," Edge says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It's not a nice smile.

"You’re a mean little bastard," Red says, rubbing his ribs like Sans actually did any damage. He's not wearing any pants. Of course he's not wearing any pants. What he does have is Sans's hoodie tied around his neck.

Sans feels obligated to tell him, "You look like a douchebag with a yacht."

"And you got jizz on your face," Red says. 

Sans stops himself from wiping his mouth again. He can imagine pink and blue smeared across his jaw like a flashing neon sign. "So do you."

"Yeah, but I don't give a shit." Red pulls the hoodie off and tosses it to Sans, who definitely does not clutch it to his chest. Two shirts and a pair of shorts don't feel like enough to cover him. "Goddamn, it's like you've never run into somebody's brother-boyfriend after you sucked 'em off before.” Sans grimaces, starts to say something about maybe not rubbing the incest thing in his face, and Red talks right over him. “He ain't gonna hurt you."

"I'm not your boyfriend," Edge says scornfully.

"Brother-husband," Red says, almost managing a straight face.

"As if I'd have you," Edge says. Maybe it takes a Sans to hear the fondness in his voice.

Waggling his brows, Red says, "You can have me anytime you want." 

"Welp." Sans gratefully shrugs into his hoodie and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Sounds like you two have a lot to talk about, so--"

"Yeah, yeah." As if Edge isn't even there, Red turns and takes Sans's face in his hands. "Cool your tits."

His hands are warm. Like an idiot, Sans lets Red lean in to nuzzle him, an almost kiss, unhurried and indulgent. He can smell himself on Red. When Red's tongue flicks across the corner of his mouth, he doesn't shudder, but his fingers flex in his pockets with how bad he wants to touch Red back and derail his entire escape attempt.

Against his mouth, Red says, quiet but not too quiet for Edge to hear, "Go ahead and run, honey. You'll be back sooner or later."

If Sans sounds that condescending all the time, it's amazing that nobody's killed him yet.

He plants a hand in Red's sternum and pushes him firmly back a step. Red goes, grinning unrepentantly. There are probably a lot of witty rejoinders Sans could toss carelessly off, but he's running short on careless and witty. So he makes a jerking off gesture instead to show what he thinks of Red’s bullshit, then diverts. “Grillby’s tomorrow for lunch?”

Edge makes a disgusted noise and turns back to the TV, dismissing them both. Red winks at him, and Sans wants to smack the smirk off his face. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Sans gets the hell out.

Papyrus is thankfully, blessedly, not in the bathroom to shower or to clean. He doesn’t see Sans pop into existence. It's bad enough to see himself looking back from the mirror, wild-eyed, sweaty, his face smeared with telltale red. It's not as bad as he'd been afraid of. Maybe Edge didn't see it from the couch. Maybe it's just his imagination that Red left a mark on him that he can't wash off.

"That went well," he tells himself, and turns the shower on as cold as it'll go.


End file.
